Mr. Sandman: A Thrilling Novel

by Lyle Howard

  “Come on, Shaky,” Willy prodded, “we’ve got to get this place fixed up before the inspection tomorrow. The top brass will have our nuts on a strawberry sundae if we don’t straighten up those drums.”

  The biggest thrill in Shaky’s naive existence was that Willy let him carry the keys. It was Shaky’s way of knowing that Willy would always be dependent on him. Willy never let Shaky in on the fact that he always carried a spare set around in a pouch in his tool box.

  Shaky enthusiastically fumbled through the key ring attached by a retractable wire to one of his belt loops. It was time for the same game he always played. He loved to pretend that he didn’t know which key opened the door, but he really did. Willy rolled his eyes and leaned against the door frame while he waited. This daily melodrama might take as long as two or three minutes.

  “Now which one could it be?” Shaky teased, occasionally checking on Willy’s reaction.

  Willy moaned in exasperation. “Not this one,” Shaky mused, as he slipped two or three more keys through his trembling fingers.

  Willy waited patiently, but it was obvious that Shaky’s routine was beginning to wear thin. He knew how to put a quick, but tactful end to Shaky’s one-man production of Key Hunt. “Why don’t you label them?” he suggested.

  The little man pouted like a spoiled child. “Aw, here it is.”

  Shaky stretched the key chain to its limit and finally unlocked the silver double doors.

  “Hold the doors open for me, will you?” Willy asked, while stepping around behind the pallet jack to take his place at the controls.

  Shaky never budged. There are three very simple control settings on the handle grip of the pallet jack: forward, neutral and reverse. Spinning the grip into any one of these positions automatically turned the pallet jack on, as long as the key was inserted, which it was. Willy pushed forward on the grip and slipped the transmission through reverse and into the middle setting, neutral. “Aren’t you gonna open the doors?” Willy asked, trying to keep his intolerance to a minimum. There was a lot of work that needed to be done before tomorrow and he really didn’t have the time or inclination to play around anymore.

  “But, you…you said, I could wo…wo…work the pallet jack.” Shaky began to stutter. He stuttered whenever he was upset.

  Willy tapped his fingers on the controls. “I said you could work the pallet jack when we were outside, not in here.”

  Shaky crossed his arms on his chest like a little boy that wasn’t getting his way. “No, you didn’t. Y-you didn’t say noth-nothing about workin’ it just outside.”

  Willy knew that if he intended to get any work done today, he was going to have to let Shaky drive the pallet jack. He stepped back and motioned for Shaky to take his place. Shaky grinned like it was Christmas morning.

  “Now you wait until I open the doors all the way, okay, Shaky?”

  Shaky gripped the handles and began making “vroooming” sounds, like a low-pitched motorcycle.

  “Are you listening to me, Shaky?” Willy demanded to know. “I’m not gonna open these doors until you settle down.”

  Shaky’s vocal chords went silent. Not because he was told to, but because he could feel another one of his seizures coming on. His fingers tightened around the handles and his tensed muscles crushed the controls in a bearlike clench.

  It was then that Willy made the catastrophic miscalcula­tion of turning his back when he thought that Shaky had calmed down. “Now that’s better,” Willy said, sliding open the oversized stainless steel doors.

  Shaky’s left hand jerked on a lever that he was never supposed to handle. A hydraulic cylinder raised the two protruding forks to shoulder height, while his other hand convulsed on the right grip that regulated the transmission. In a burst of unexpected speed, the pallet jack bolted forward catching Willy between its uplifted prongs. The two forks slid under his arm pits and then closed slightly, lifting his feet off the ground. He screamed for help as the conveyor sped along with him pinned to the front of it like a twisted hood ornament on a luxury sedan.

  Shaky was oblivious to his friend’s horrified pleading. He stood frozen on the platform behind Blanchard, immersed in his suffering, his hands affixed to the controls in a spasmodic stranglehold.

  The drums that were stacked on wooden pallets along the walls of the storeroom were all labeled as either flammable, combustible or corrosive. Each drum displayed a diamond-shaped warning symbol that showed a skull and cross-bones, a burning spark, or droplets of some vile liquid being poured from a test tube onto an exposed hand. Whatever the warning, they were all deadly if used with the wrong intent, and incendiary if they were mixed.

  Shaky’s head shook like a happy dog’s tail. The seizure had traveled the length of his body and was now attacking the muscles in his neck. It was a foregone conclusion that the pill he had swallowed at lunch never had the opportunity to take effect.

  The pallet jack barreled down on a stack of black metal drums all labeled with a burning spark. Willy’s eyes widened in terror as he struggled to free himself from the forks. His feet slapped frantically at the floor. But Willy Blanchard’s resistance was futile. Unlike the volatile metal containers, his fate was sealed.

  The floor of the operating room yawned open like the gates of hell. Fire and smoke exploded upward in an eruption of tiles and surgical equipment. Two nurses who stood on ground zero felt the full brunt of the blast. One was instantly vaporized by its tremendous heat and force; the other was catapulted into the bank of overhead floodlights and electrocuted. Her charred corpse dangled like a gruesome ornament from the lights.

  The window in front of the general shattered in an almost surreal ballet of glass, sending thousands of crystalline mis­siles of death in every size and shape hurtling at the operating room’s unprepared occupants. Doctor Xavier fell on top of the baby as his inanimate body was rifled with holes. The nurse that had been standing beside him was spun around like a marionette whose strings had become hopelessly tangled. The flesh and muscle on her exposed face and limbs were torn from her lifeless bones as the razor-sharp glass pummeled her body with incredible velocity. Identifying her later would prove to be an impossibility.

  Upstairs, the general’s face was shredded by the glass, but because his uniform was woven from a heavy cloth, most of his body was spared. Unprotected by the thin veil of his eyelids, he was instantly blinded by the initial volley of glass. He had instinctively raised his hands to cover his face, but the slivers of the window sliced through his palms and fingers. He wobbled backward and tried to scream, but his breath was sucked out of his lungs. Quickly losing any sense of equilib­rium, he pitched forward over the railing and tumbled headfirst into the mayhem below. His skull split open when he hit what was left of the tiled floor.

  Showing total disregard for his own life, the anesthesiolo­gist leapt up onto the operating table and draped himself over Nancy Reiter. When a second explosion shook the under­ground facility, the two of them were tossed off the table with Nancy landing on top. The anesthesiologist, whose eardrums were burst and bleeding from the concussion, struggled to maneuver himself above Nancy again, protecting her from any further injury. She was lucky that she was under heavy sedation, because the drugs kept her muscles relaxed when ordinarily she would have tensed up. But it was more than just the anesthesia that saved her life that afternoon.

  Heroes are made and not born. The young anesthesiolo­gist that saved Nancy Reiter’s life would not be remembered as a hero, but merely as just another casualty of an unexpected tragedy. When a small section of the ceiling collapsed, a jagged chunk of concrete dropped onto his already battered back, snapping his spine in half.

  Knowing that he had somehow managed to shield his patient, the young doctor exhaled his last breath, and passed away with a satisfied expression on his face.

  Any newspaper accounts of the explosion and subsequent fire were vague … if they were mentioned at all.

  The Pentagon managed to stifle any de
tailed accounts of the incident, and any records or documents that even alluded to “Project Sandman” were classified as “guarded,” ordered sealed, and locked away.

  It would be another seventeen years in Washington be­fore the experiment was ever mentioned, and another ten after that before the manhunt would begin.

  Part 2: ColdBlooded

  Washington National Airport Arlington, Virginia Wednesday, January 13, 1982

  Inside it was a beehive of activity, but outside, under the canopy of turbulently swirling gray clouds, the airport was a setting that was literally frozen in time. As motionless as a broken watch, the airport had ground to a halt. Every airplane stood stranded, helplessly inactive because of the howling snowstorm.

  Thousands of irate commuters shoved and cursed in slow-moving lines at the public telephones, unable to make their outbound or connecting flights. Inbound planes were being rerouted to half a dozen other airfields, forsaking the families and friends who lingered neglected at the various gates in anticipation of the arrival of their relatives or com­panions.

  Finding two seats in a relatively peaceful corner of the Air Florida terminal, Nancy Cutter and her son, Lance, gazed longingly out the window at the snow-covered runways.

  “How much longer do you think it’ll be, Mom?” Lance asked, adjusting the awkward-looking sunglasses on his nose.

  Nancy spun her head to the right and read the clock that was mounted over the checkin desk for Flight 82 to Miami. “Well, we’ve been here four hours, so far. When I went to get a drink of water before, I overheard one of the flight atten­dants saying that we might get out of here around dinner time. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” she asked, combing her son’s feathery blond hair with her fingers.

  Nancy was so proud of her son. He had seen more misery and humiliation in his seventeen years than should be allowed by law. “But why can’t we fly straight into Miami?” he asked in an annoying whine that revealed his boredom.

  Nancy reached down into her purse and pulled out a People magazine that she had purchased at the airport news­stand and handed it to Lance to appease him. “Because they canceled our flight to Miami. The only chance we have of getting out of here today is to fly to Tampa.” She went back into her purse for her phone log, but seeing the lengthy lines, she let the book drop back into the purse. “Once we get to Tampa, we should have no problem catching a flight home.”

  Lance nodded his head and began flipping through the magazine until he found an article on celebrity pets that looked halfway interesting. He had no trouble reading in the faintly lit terminal with his sunglasses on. As a matter of fact, it had been medically proven that his eyesight was seventy to eighty percent better than anyone he had ever caught gawking at his most unique features. The only reason he always wore the dark glasses in public was to conceal the origin of so much of his shame and ridicule.

  Over the public address system, a woman’s voice an­nounced that the National Weather Service was forecasting that the storm would be dissipating in less than an hour. The announcer begged for the cooperation of all passengers to orderly and calmly check in at their respective gates for further information regarding flights and delays.

  Nancy lifted the Navy pea coat off her lap and draped it over the arm of her chair. “Do you want to wait here while I go check in at the gate?”

  Lance looked up from his magazine and smiled cheer­fully. “Yeah, I’ll wait, but do you think there’s a chance you can bring me back a Coke? I’m awful thirsty.”

  His mother lovingly prodded him in the shoulder with her elbow as she stood up. “You’ve been so patient on this trip, maybe I’ll throw in a bag of chips, too. How’s that?”

  Lance wrinkled his nose, causing the enormous glasses to ride up on his face. “You’re the best, Mom. Thanks.”

  The fifty yards to the checkin counter at the Air Florida gate was like an obstacle course. Nancy had to force her way through the crowd, being conscientious not to step on the numerous passengers that had decided to create makeshift beds out of whatever free space they could find on the crowded floor. They looked so peaceful to Nancy. She considered it a miracle that they could sleep at all, lying in the midst of such turmoil, on pillows from made from handbags and overcoats.

  She was third in line when she arrived at the gate. In front of her were two couples, both looking panic-stricken as they tried to reroute their trips to Miami through some other connecting city. Nancy listened intently to the series of options the ticket agent offered the marooned passengers in front of her. Of the five southern cities that the ticket agent suggested, Tampa was the logical choice for Nancy. She just hoped that the flight was still available by the time the two groups ahead of her had made their selections. The first couple, two newlyweds, chose Orlando. The second two­some chose Tampa. “Damn!” Nancy muttered under her breath. “Those could have been my seats.” As she inched closer to the counter, she crossed her fingers and prayed that they weren’t the last two.

  While handing her tickets across the counter to the smiling agent, Nancy scanned through the throng of bustling commuters and the choking haze of cigarette smoke until she spotted Lance. It was as if a silent alarm went off in her head every time she sensed something was not quite right with her boy. On a trip to their farm last summer when Lance had fallen off a horse, her folks had laughed it off as just her maternal instinct, but Nancy knew that the feeling was much stronger than that.

  There was a stranger sitting next to Lance, and they were talking. “Goddamn it,” she cursed to herself. “And after I told him not to speak to anyone!” She couldn’t see the man’s face because they were both situated with their backs to her, but she could tell from the movements of their heads that they were indeed having a lively conversation.

  “Mrs. Cutter,” the ticket agent begged, snapping his fingers to attract her attention. “We’ve got a lot of other customers waiting behind you.”

  Nancy’s intense concentration never wavered as she watched her son interact with the stranger.

  “Mrs. Cutter, please, we’re getting really backed up here. What city would you like to be rerouted through?”

  Even though it had been over six years since she had changed Reiter to Cutter legally, sometimes, accidentally, she still didn’t respond to the new name.

  The agent dispensed an apologetic expression to the column of disgruntled passengers fidgeting behind Nancy. “Mrs. Cutter, I must ask you to decide quickly.”

  “Hmm?” Nancy asked, her concern turning back to the ticket agent.

  The agent groaned in relief as a short, stocky man behind Nancy started to applaud. “Welcome back to reality, lady,” the annoying little man growled, as he mangled an unlit cigar with his teeth.

  “I … I’m sorry,” Nancy apologized, “now, what were you saying?”

  The agent behind the counter tried his best to show his patience. “I was wondering which city you wanted me to re-ticket you to.”

  Nancy’s eyes kept shifting back and forth between the agent and her son. “Tampa will be just fine.”

  The ticket agent typed madly at his keyboard and pro­duced a new set of tickets for Flight 90 to Tampa. “The plane will be boarding at gate 4B, over there,” he said, pointing across the congested terminal. He gladly handed the new tickets across the counter to Nancy, who thanked him and excused herself for her inattentive behavior.

  With her new tickets in hand, she only walked a few paces before deciding to hide momentarily behind a concrete pillar while she studied the mannerisms of the man speaking to Lance.

  When the stranger turned his head, she could see that his features were angular and rugged. His nose was sharp at the tip, but as crooked as a mountain road. He wore his dark hair short-cropped, and his face clean-shaven. Now that frightful alarm was ringing in her head like a school bell signaling the end of the day’s classes. The stranger’s rigid posture and his commanding demeanor reminded Nancy of her late husband. That could only mean one thing: this ma
n had to be military!

  Stepping out from behind the column, she shoved her way through the interminable commotion to rejoin her son. The stranger didn’t notice her standing above him because he was too enthralled with Lance’s interpretation of the celebrity pet article he had been reading.

  “Excuse me,” Nancy interrupted, “is there something I can do for you?”

  Lance looked up sheepishly at his mother. “I was just telling him about the different kinds of dogs and cats that the movie stars own, Mom.”

  The stranger stood up and offered Nancy her chair back. Her eyes narrowed as she held up her hand in refusal. “No thank you, I prefer to stand.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cutter,” the stranger said, “Lance and I were just passing the time until you returned. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Instinctively, Nancy walked over and put her hand pro­tectively on Lance’s shoulder. “How do you know my name?”

  The stranger unbuttoned his topcoat to reveal an Air Force uniform with officer’s decorations.

  “You’re military,” she said, unaware that she was sud­denly gripping her son’s shoulder harder than he would have liked.

  The stranger turned his head and looked over his shoul­der, surveying the crowd in the immediate area. “Is there somewhere that we can talk privately?”

  Nancy could feel Lance suddenly growing uneasy under the pressure from her hand. “Mom?”

  She looked down at Lance and then back at the stranger. “We’re not going anywhere with you,” she snapped.

  The officer nodded. “I fully understand your apprehen­sion, Mrs. Cutter, but I can assure you that I’m here to help you.”

  Nancy stuck out her finger and began poking the stranger in the chest to emphasize what she was saying to him. “You’re here to help?” she said, laughing under her breath. “You mean just like those assholes at the Pentagon? They promised to help me, too, and where did it get me? I’m on the first flight out of town!”